May 9th.
Our lawful (?) owners have at last arrived. About sunset,
day before yesterday, the Iroquois anchored here, and a graceful young Federal
stepped ashore, carrying a Yankee flag over his shoulder, and asked the way to
the Mayor's office. I like the style! If we girls of Baton Rouge had been at
the landing, instead of the men, that Yankee would never have insulted us by flying
his flag in our faces! We would have opposed his landing except under a
flag of truce; but the men let him alone, and he even found a poor Dutchman
willing to show him the road!
He did not accomplish much; said a formal demand would be
made next day, and asked if it was safe for the men to come ashore and buy a
few necessaries, when he was assured the air of Baton Rouge was very unhealthy
for Yankee soldiers at night. He promised very magnanimously not to shell us
out if we did not molest him; but I notice none of them dare set their feet on terra
firma, except the officer who has now called three times on the Mayor, and
who is said to tremble visibly as he walks the streets.
Last evening came the demand: the town must be surrendered
immediately; the Federal flag Must be raised; they would grant us the same
terms they granted New Orleans. Jolly terms those were! The answer was worthy
of a Southerner. It was, “The town was defenseless; if we had cannon, there
were not men enough to resist; but if forty vessels lay at the landing, — it
was intimated we were in their power, and more ships coming up, — we would not
surrender; if they wanted, they might come and Take us; if they wished the
Federal flag hoisted over the Arsenal, they might put it up for themselves, the
town had no control over Government property.” Glorious! What a pity they did
not shell the town! But they are taking us at our word, and this morning they
are landing at the Garrison.
“All devices, signs, and flags of the Confederacy shall be
suppressed.” So says Picayune Butler. Good. I devote all my red, white,
and blue silk to the manufacture of Confederate flags. As soon as one is
confiscated, I make another, until my ribbon is exhausted, when I will sport a
duster emblazoned in high colors, “Hurra! for the Bonny blue flag!” Henceforth,
I wear one pinned to my bosom — not a duster, but a little flag; the man who
says take it off will have to pull it off for himself; the man who dares
attempt it — well! a pistol in my pocket fills up the gap. I am capable, too.
This is a dreadful war, to make even the hearts of women so bitter! I hardly
know myself these last few weeks. I, who have such a horror of bloodshed,
consider even killing in self-defense murder, who cannot wish them the
slightest evil, whose only prayer is to have them sent back in peace to their
own country, — I talk of killing them! For what else do I wear a pistol
and carving-knife? I am afraid I will try them on the first one who says
an insolent word to me. Yes, and repent for it ever after in sackcloth and
ashes. O! if I was only a man! Then I could don the breeches, and slay
them with a will! If some few Southern women were in the ranks, they could set
the men an example they would not blush to follow. Pshaw! there are no women
here! We are all men!
SOURCE: Sarah Morgan Dawson, A Confederate Girl's
Diary, p. 22-5
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